


Slave of the True Heir

by StarsBurst



Series: Servants to Greatness [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Pet Names, Slavery, Slaves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 13:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11014374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsBurst/pseuds/StarsBurst
Summary: According to legend, a son of Ragnar Lothbrok would marry a Princess. Do the legends still count, if the Princess was captured by Vikings?(Tags will be added as they arise; there will eventually be smut.)





	1. Chapter 1

The bed was softer than anything you had become accustomed to over the past two, three, or so years. Time was hardly relevant now; you stopped keeping track a while ago. But this bed: you could feel the large stack of furs pressed underneath and around you, along with a thick woolen blanket. You could hear the crackling of a fire nearby: a fire which you had not started. You were warm. It was a nice change from the many nights you had spend in the top of the Ragnarsson barn, sleeping atop a scratchy oxen hide and sparse hay.

“Are you awake, my little wife?”

A distinctive voice – one you recognized well, even in your half-asleep state – broke through the morning quiet.

“I am not your wife yet, Ivar,” you found yourself muttering, regardless of the grin you could feel stretching across your face.

“Yet?”

“ _Yet_ ,” you confirmed, with a slight tease in your voice. “There is still a week left.”

“That does not matter,” he scoffed, and you finally opened your eyes when you felt the bed shift underneath from additional weight. Prince Ivar sat on the edge of the bed, already dressed and seemingly ready to begin his day, even though the light was only starting to rise. “You will be my wife soon enough. You promised.”

Were you not paying attention, you would have missed the sliver of insecurity that Ivar was attempting to hide. Ivar the Boneless was a strong and immovable force, a true Viking, but he was as susceptible to insecurities as any other man. You were certain this insecurity – which, you knew, stemmed from his own thoughts of being unlovable, because of his legs – was what kept you a slave for so long. A slave of Ivar the Boneless could not leave without repercussion. A free woman, even one engaged to a son of Ragnar Lothbrok, could break her engagement without anyone thinking ill of her.

“I did promise, and I shall keep it,” you said calmly, taking his closest hand and giving it a squeeze. “I am not a slave anymore. I am a free woman. I can make my own choices, and I am determined to keep my promises.”

“That is true,” he said, a particular glint in his eye that you recognized well, after seeing it so often the night before. “You are now free. But you shall always be my little slave.”

Unlike the many times he'd called you that previously – to mock you, to remind you of your fallen status, his attempts to infuriate you so he could punish you for insolence – his voice was now softer and more playful. Affectionate, even, as if you being his personal slave was something too intimate for others to know about.

Rather than choosing to respond with cheek, you playfully put one of the furs over your face. “I am tired, Ivar. Please, let me rest.”

He laughed at that, and you couldn't help but grin too, especially after he moved the fur enough to press a kiss to your forehead. “Then sleep while I am gone. I know you need it.” Then he carefully crawled off the bed and headed towards the door, adding over his shoulder, “There will be no time for sleeping when I return!”

 


	2. Chapter 2

The Heathen invasion had swarmed upon your lands like a great plague. Nobody had believed it would happen. For your father, it provided great fortune: he was spared. He was abroad in Gardarike, with great hopes for a trade agreement between his kingdom and theirs. For you and your sister, whom had been left behind, it was misfortune.

You had been with Orva, who was small for someone hardly four summers of age, reading a book while her nursemaid fussed over her charge's appearance when you'd heard shouting from down the hallway, followed by screams. The yelling was nothing new: servants and nobility alike yelled and cursed at one another. The screams, however, _were_ unusual, and Orva's nursemaid went to see what the commotion was.

Later, you saw her body, ridden with stab wounds, a few yards from the door. Whether she had been coming to warn you, or had no chance to, you never found out.

Several Vikings had burst in the door a few minutes later. You'd heard their footsteps pounding down the hallway, and you'd only had enough time to tuck Orva protectively under your arm and grab the nearest object as a weapon. You must have earned the gods' graces that day: the Vikings who charged in found the scene before them – a Saxon Princess defending a small child against several intruders with nothing but an iron fire poker – far more amusing than threatening. One of them (Hvitserk, you later learned) even started to laugh, while another (Ubbe) spoke brokenly in your native tongue. They would not harm you, or the person you were shielding, if you came willingly; if not, you both would die.

You had no other choice.

**~ * ~**

Orva cried for hours, while you felt so shell-shocked, you did not cry or yell or fight back. You merely held tightly onto your sister, pressing her face into the crook of your neck so she would not lose her innocence in what she witnessed.

Death. Bloodshed. Viking laughter. Taunts in another language. Gold and silver and luxury items were pillaged from your household. Jewelry, furs, great trunks and chests of treasures. Bodies of men and women of the court surrounded you as you were ushered out of the castle. Even before you had been put into the boat, you knew you were a prisoner of the Heathens; yet, you were grateful to be spared. Few others had the same fortune: a visiting Duchess who spoke only Latin, two youthful and strong Dukes, and one of your father's horsemen.

Everyone else they had found – servants, peasants whose land was on their trek to the castle – had been slain. Other dignitaries – ladies of your father's court, another handful of Earls and Dukes – had been tied up. None of them made it to the Heathens' boats. The Vikings lit fires and tied men onto pikes. Beautiful women were dragged off towards the woods; men returned afterwards, wet with blood and carrying their jewels.

All of this went on, and Orva eventually cried herself into exhaustion, still holding on to you as tightly as her small fists would allow. You merely sat on the ground, her small body in your lap, listening to the sounds of weeping and roars of laughter around you, and you prayed they would not separate you from her.

**~ * ~**

You woke abruptly at the sound of a door shutting loudly. For a split second, you thought it might be Ivar, but that could not be true: the sun was still out, and you had never heard him close the door so loudly, even if he was enraged.

“You are still asleep, sister?”

Oh. Yes. Ubbe.

Once Ivar announced your engagement to his brothers, Ubbe – the least stunned of the three – had started referring to you only by this fond nickname. You had started returning the favor, even though your platonic affection towards his brothers often made Ivar's eye twitch with jealousy.

“Yes, and you are a cruel visitor, brother, for waking me so.”

He chuckled at that. You were grateful that you'd worn your thin shift to sleep in, but you still wrapped the woolen blanket around your shoulders as you sat up in bed.

“Ivar asked if I would see you, since he could not get away from Floki,” Ubbe said, helping himself to a cup of mead from the jug on the nearby table. You hadn't put it there, nor had you placed the small amount of bread, cheese, and soup; you weren't particularly hungry, but it was nice knowing that Ivar's slaves held no resentment over you. Either that, or they were unwilling to allow you to starve and face any sort of wrath from their master.

“He was worried you might run off.”

“He becomes jealous easily,” you said with a shrug. “He thinks you will seduce me, or some utter nonsense... I cannot imagine why.”

Ubbe chuckled at that; despite his occasional romps in his teen years, the eldest son of Aslaug and Ragnar only had eyes for his wife. Anybody with eyes could see that. “Hvitserk is envious, I have learned,” he teased, and you rolled your eyes. Both of you knew he was lying.

“Hvitserk has his wife. We both know she keeps him satisfied.” You had certainly overheard Hvitserk and his wife, Hlíf, enough times for them to have several children already, and you'd caught sight of them more than once. It seemed more rare for either of them to keep their hands to themselves, than to stay apart.

“Then perhaps I meant Sigurd.”

“And Sigurd has his left hand. He shall get over it.”

Ubbe looked as if he were struggling to keep from laughing. He cut off a few slabs of cheese and bread, before sitting on the bed beside you.

“Why would Floki not let Ivar leave?” you asked, taking a slice of bread.

“They are working on wedding things,” Ubbe replied carefully. “We will need to be creative about it.”

You had no response to that. What _could_ you say? You'd attended Hvitserk's and Hlíf's wedding. You understood there were many traditions in a Viking wedding which were different than a traditional Christian wedding.

A bridal race was meant to be run between a husband and a male relative of the bride; you had no family other than Orva, who was now eight summers and too young to perform such a duty, and Ivar would not be able to compete against her anyway. You had nobody to give you away, but – as Ivar's oldest brother fully-by-blood, Ubbe had graciously offered to do so. You had no dowry to present to him, nor weapons of your father to exchange during the ceremony.

“Oh,” was the only thing you could say, trying to hide your disheartened tone behind the bread, but Ubbe caught it anyway.

“Ivar did not want you to worry about it,” he explained. You recognized the shift of voice immediately: it was the tone he used with Margrethe when he wanted her to relax from her nightmares, or her anxiety about the future. “He does not want you to worry at all. He was insistent that you ought to sleep, and gain weight.”

“Gain weight?”

The concern on Ubbe's face was unshakable. “At first, I thought he was making a show, but now that I see you, you do need rest, sister.”

“I am not used to so much sleep,” you joked softly, and Ubbe let out a sigh, before he poured some mead into a cup and passed it to you.

“Drink, then go back to sleep.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to slowly introduce more information about the Reader as time goes along, while also hopping back and forth between present and past. (Ivar will return in the next chapter, I promise!) 
> 
> Also, fun fact: Gardarike was an old country, between Russia and the Ukraine, which was all one kingdom during this time period. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I promised not to mention a name for the Reader insert, but I couldn't help myself (sorry). This story will act as a tie-in with another one-shot I'm working on, and the Reader's name will be the same. Overall, it's not important to the story, but it's mentioned once (and only once: for realsies this time).

The Viking who could not walk continually stared at you on the boat. You could feel his eyes boring into the back of your head, but you refused to look at him. You didn't want to acknowledge his presence. Instead, you silently kept your arms around Orva, cradling her as gently as the shackles on your hands would allow.

The Vikings had quickly realized that you both were sort of a package, so they had planted Orva into your lap for safekeeping, then shackled your hands together, so she was unable to escape from you. Nobody spoke to you directly, but you listened to those around you. Few words stuck out – terms that were, most likely, names – but you were struggling to figure out what they meant. By the second week on boat, your wrists had severe burns and bleeding, and you no longer cared about the Vikings' language. Orva had gotten so quiet during the voyage, you occasionally frightened that she had died. But she would always cuddle closer into you, or squirm slightly, and you knew she would be fine.

The “friendlier” of the lot aboard the ship – Vikings with great tattoos and markings on their faces, or arms, and large scars from previous battles – would sometimes engage in one-sided conversation with the slaves. Most of the time, it seemed to be mockery, but there were sparse moments when one would gently pat Orva on the head and say something seemingly tender in their language, then they left you both alone.

After almost three weeks, your captors finally saw land, and you knew the next portion of your journey would begin. While many of the Vikings cheered and began to make preparations for landing, the Heathen who couldn't walk crawled over towards you and Orva, who was thankfully asleep through all of the commotion.

For several moments, he merely stared at you, and you stubbornly refused to look at him. Instead, you kept your eyes on Orva, but you could still see the Viking's legs. They were crudely bound together; you weren't sure whether this was some sort of punishment inflicted upon him by his people, or if he had been born without the ability to use his legs. Either way, you knew he was strong. You could see the great muscles in his arms and the broadness of his shoulders when he crawled. He had survived the invasion, and that alone spoke volumes to you.

Then he caught you more off-guard than before.

“Is this your child?” he asked, in your native tongue.

You were so stunned by hearing your own language from another – from someone who _wasn't_ praying for death or for mercy, as your fellow Saxons had been for the past few weeks – that you answered him, honestly and without any kind of forethought.

“No. She is my sister.”

His brows came together in confusion. “She is so small. Why did you bring her along?”

“I did not want her to die,” you replied, tightening your arms around her, hoping she would not wake. Leaving her would have meant her death, since the army would have killed her (or she would have starved), and taking her along might also cause her to die, but there was a silver lining of hope to bringing her on the boat. She might just grow old enough to escape and live on her own, should the heathens not decide to kill her for any sick reason. “She is precious to me.”

He said no more after that; he only nodded his head, once, then crawled off to where he'd previously been sitting.

**~ * ~**

You had given up on the Christian God long before the Heathen army arrived, though you never mentioned such a thing aloud. He had killed your mother in childbirth. Your father had scorned you, for he had wanted a son instead, and he had scorned Orva, for her birth caused his wife's death. He praised God unto the Highest, begging for his children to be replaced with a male heir, and you damned God for giving you a fool of a kingly father.

Now, it was if He were mocking you. After being transported from the ship into the heart of these Vikings' township, you – along with the other slaves – were sent to the Queen. At least, you _assumed_ it was their Queen. She held herself high, and those you could see treated her with utmost respect. (Later on, you realized you were correct. Queen Lagertha was one to be feared.) You tried your best to keep up with everything around you – given, of course, that you knew not a word of what they were saying – but you could also see her gaze repeatedly falling upon your sister, who was tucked beside you.

Queen Lagertha spoke proudly and with a regal air that you knew some natural born royals lacked. That did not mean, when she declared your little sister a foundling who was to be raised under her case and no one else's, that you weren't afraid for your future. Something about the tiny girl of four summers had intrigued the Viking Queen, and – instead of allowing another to keep her as a child slave, Queen Lagertha decided to protect Orva... but not you.

Orva had wailed for you to come with her, wailed out for protection in your native tongue, but you had known better than to fight. You – and the others, spared from death during the raid of your homelands – would be made into a slave, but your sweet innocent sister would be spared any further bloodshed or loss. Perhaps, one day, she might even forget that you were her blood, and she could be content with her life among the Viking fold. Each Saxon was, from what you could see, given as property to other Vikings; it wasn't for several hours later when you realized the crippled Vikings – named Ivar, and he truly was born a cripple – was now your master.

**~ * ~**

The initial months following your separation from Orva had been absolute Hell. You toiled fields. You brought great buckets of water to men in the sparring range, always fearful that they would plant an ax or arrow into you rather than the targets. You dug ditches, ran errands and messages, hung and washed laundry. All that you were told. In the evenings, you slept in the loft of the Lothbrok barn, listening to the soft rustling of their cattle, the occasional loud noise from their longhouse, sleeping under a faux bed of hay and a thinning oxen hide.

In spare glances, you would see Orva: initially frightened, always teary-eyed, before she started to pick up their language. She grew happier, though you would often feel her eyes on you whenever she was around. She was protected by Queen Lagertha, and that was the best you could hope for. You, instead, gained muscle, callouses on your hands and feet, allowed your heart to turn to stone and your tongue into an iron blade.

You saw other men beat their slaves until they bled, until great purpling and blackened welts would appear on their shoulders and back; some would beg for mercy, others would lick their wounds later on and cry until the morning sun rose again. A few died from such treatment, and no sort of Christian justice would be done. They were Heathens; Christianity and decency held no leverage in Kattegat.

You watched. You watched every living creature, every person; you learned their names, their roles in the community, who to avoid, who to listen to. You learned, and you watched. You kept as silent as humanly possible. If nothing else, your new master seemed to appreciate your quiet. He would – when the mood struck him – ask you questions in your native tongue, for his own amusement than anything else.

“What is your name?”

(Begilda.)

He repeated it, correctly, and you nodded. He left it at that, but he remembered it from then on. He knew the names of the other slaves too, but he would pretend to forget them for his own amusement. He never did this to you.

“What were you before you became my slave?”

(A princess.)

He'd been unable to hide the shock from his face, but the laughter that followed made you blush with humiliation. Your hands were shaking under your immovable frustration. There was nothing you could do.

“When was it that you spoke to your sister last?”

(I don't know. When we arrived to Kattegat?)

He had laughed at your pronunciation of his village, before – with surprising gentleness and patience – correcting you until you said it accurately.

“What are you thinking of?”

You had been his slave for seven months when he asked that. The Great Hall was empty, save for Ivar, eating his evening meal as slowly as possible to keep you awake. You knew that he could see your body changing; the lack of sleep, the loss of weight (even amidst the gaining muscle). It was impossible for avoid, but his question, you refused to answer.

He found your silence amusing.

“Why are you so quiet, my little slave?” he teased. He was a proper monster to his other slaves, to any sort of slave, but you... You weren't sure why, but he treated you differently. Not as if you were a free woman, but not as poorly as the other slaves. That hadn't stopped him from giving you that nickname, however. “Are you thinking of nothing? Has your head become as empty as the other slave's?”

“I am thinking of Orva,” you admitted when Ivar began to laugh, and your answer made him stop. “I... She is happy.”

“She is small,” Ivar shrugged. “Small children always seem to be.”

“She was never this happy, before.”

The deathly quiet that filled the air was so thick and heavy, it was almost as if someone had wrapped a cloth around your mouth and tried to choke you with it. Ivar's eyes bore into you for several moments, and you could tell that he was thinking. Ivar – like you – was always thinking, but he also had power. Power and a sharp mind were magnificent gifts, or terrible ones. With him, in this moment, you were unsure of which it was.

Luckily, he simply knocked his dishes and wooden cutlery onto the ground, at your feet, and demanded in a softer tone that he reserved for you: “Pick it up. I'm done for the evening.”

**~ * ~**

He detested his other slaves. Your fellow Saxons; men and women who had been born into servitude; people brought to Kattegat from other raids. Ivar the Boneless detested them all. He never said such things aloud, but that much was obvious in his demeanor, you thought.

The Saxons were – following the first two or three months of utter fear – far more vocal in their native tongues than you thought would occur, particularly in his presence. And Ivar put up with none of it.

He struck these slaves across the face. He threatened to kill them in their own tongue. He had them whipped in the public square, along with the slaves of other men. He threatened various acts of torture amidst throwing cutlery or silverware, screams of pure cruelty and rage, mocking and spitting and strikes hard enough to bruise. He offered slaves to Vikings of lower status, for minute offenses that provoked his wrath.

His favoritism of you – or, rather, your silence and obedience – did not go unnoticed by the others. He rarely rose his voice at you, though his tone was always commanding; it would simply grow more firm, unless he was in a darker mood than usual. Not once did he strike you across the face, nor threaten you with physical violence or whippings, though he would frequently slap your backside for his own amusement. He made no sexual advances towards you, and he hadn't tolerated anybody talking about you in such a fashion.

You could see their jealousy in their looks, in Saxon mutterings you caught through-out the day, until Ivar caught wind, cut out the tongue of one Saxon slave, then sent all of them to the ports to be given new masters. His brothers had been less than amused: his actions meant you were now one of five slaves for the house of Ragnar, and they would need to get more on their next raid.

Rather than demand any sort of thanks, or any similar nonsense for his violence, a few days later he simply asked you, “How much do you know of my language?”

“Very little.”

“I will teach you then,” he replied, his tone matter-of-fact, before tacking on, because he could, “I hate speaking in your tongue. It sounds... weak.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone! This is going to span over several chapters (much longer than I expected), but the smut will eventually come, and we will learn more about the in-historical-context characters as they arise.
> 
> I should also mention, this Reader technically has a name - which will be mentioned in other stories, and referenced in this one, but not mentioned explicitly, since I don't want to pull people out of the story. (It's "Begilda".)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Bow Before Your King](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12021246) by [StarsBurst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsBurst/pseuds/StarsBurst)




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